


the new routine

by zauberer_sirin



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Cunnilingus, Daisy's relationship issues, Developing Relationship, Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Fingerfucking, First Time, Fluff, Injury, New Year's Fluff, Resolved Sexual Tension, Romance, rewatching The Road To Christmas is good for inspiration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-13 20:57:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9141904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zauberer_sirin/pseuds/zauberer_sirin
Summary: Daisy has a plan; it doesn't involve Coulson, and it definitely doesn't involve kissing Coulson on the New Year.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RowboatCop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RowboatCop/gifts).



Coulson is not a morning person - she knows this through years of subconsciously taking not his habits, years of curiosity and interested for the person she came to regard as her closest friend, even though she wonders if the label still applies - so she is a bit startled when he catches her coming out of the Director’s office at six in the morning. Mace is not here and the fake pass she made after she and Elena needed access is burning in her guilty hand.

“Slipping into the Director’s office without permission again?” Coulson says, smiling behind his coffee mug.

He shouldn’t be up for at least a couple more hours. then she realizes, who knows, maybe Coulson is a morning person now, it’s been eight months, maybe that has changed, maybe Daisy doesn’t know him as well as she used to.

“You won’t tell anyone, will you?”

He gives her the softest of smiles, which means no, he won’t tell.

“Perks of you not being the Director anymore,” Daisy says. “Now you can be my accomplice.”

He grunts a bit. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

No, but it’s amusing to tease him.

“Do you know what information we can access with our color codes?” she asks, holding up her basically-useless lanyard. “None at all.”

Coulson’s smiles widens. She doesn’t get it, she’s breaking like fourteen SHIELD rules right now.

“You seem to be fitting right back in,” he comments. She freezes. Because she is really, really not. Coulson seems to catch that. “I didn’t mean - I meant that when I asked you to join SHIELD the first time you were hacking the system within weeks.”

She wonders if that’s how Coulson sees her - as the girl who can’t stay still for a moment before going off and breaking the rules. She wonders if he thinks she just likes being contrary. 

“Don’t make me sound like such a rebel,” she shrugs. “Sometimes you can’t wait for red take, that’s all.”

Coulson nods twice. “Couldn’t agree more,” he says. Daisy raises an eyebrow. Phil Coulson? Yeah, right. “And when I have something that can’t wait for red tape… I know where to find her.”

He walks away. Just as good, because people are starting to fill the hallways and someone might wonder what they are doing chatting outside Director Mace’s office.

 

+

 

Wherever they are flying across it’s dark. But her body doesn’t care, it’s 5.30 for her.

Not having really spent much time on this plane - not for days on end, like now - she is not familiar with the layout, at least not when she is half-asleep and only stumbling through the corridor as some sick habit, and not when she is stuffed with painkillers for her arm.

She inevitably bumps into the kitchen table - which, it’s where she wanted to arrive, but, _ouch_.

“You shouldn’t be up,” comes Coulson’s voice from behind her.

He switches one of the lights on. She really didn’t want to wake him up; she had bothered him enough this mission, what with getting hurt and him having to carry her to safety.

“Say that to my internal clock,” she tells him, squinting against the sudden light. He looks tired, like he hasn’t slept. He gives her attire a look; it’s not just that she up, it’s that she unconsciously changed into her workout clothes. She holds up her bandaged arm. “Though I’m guessing I’ll have to pass up on the punching bag today.”

“The point of you resting is-”

“Yeah, I know.”

It’s different when Coulson worries, she decides. He doesn’t order her around, and he doesn’t act annoyed or like he knows better.

“Where are we?” she asks.

They had waited until it was sure she was okay to take off, and by then she was already asleep.

“We’ll get to DC in a couple of hours.”

“I hate missing my morning workout,” she says, quietly. She doesn’t know why. It’s not like she loves it or anything. But it gives her comfort - something to do every day, same hour. It grounds her. It gives her the illusion of control, like at least she has a say to what happens at the beginning of every day, even if she doesn’t know how it’ll end. She can’t talk about it with anyone (god, she misses Andrew so badly), but it throws her off balance, if she doesn’t have something she needs to tend to every day. Even when she was on the road, chasing the Watchdogs, she set herself little tasks to carry out during the day - even if it was just changing the encryption of her laptop every night.

“Your morning _routine_ ,” Coulson corrects.

He’s noticed, of course. He probably knows it’s part of her whole “ _let’s spend as little time with others as possible_ ” life plan. But he doesn’t seem to be judging. Coulson never judges. She sighs, rubbing her injured elbow gently.

“Rest,” he says, this time softer, pressing his palm between her shoulders as he leads her towards one of the stools. “I’ll make you coffee. You weren’t here when we installed the new espresso machine. You’re going to want to thank me for choosing this one,” he jokes.

She sits down. But at least she’s on a plane, it’s not exactly standing still. 

 

+

 

The perks of being absolutely alone in the Playground for Christmas - even Mace and his workaholic assistant are away until next week - is that she can walk about in her pajamas. And she could wake up later, of course. But she doesn’t. She is good at picking up (or picking up _again_ ) these habits, her body adapts quickly. She skips the workout session, though. She feels like slacking off - it’s the holidays, after all - and since there’s no one here to hide from or need her time off from… And she means the place really is deserted. The Director’s idea, of course, something about not wanting agents to believe SHIELD is their whole lives, or some new age thing like that. Daisy had to laugh at that, these new anti-workaholic measures. She guesses being in the open again means people have the luxury to not let SHIELD be everything in their lives.

Well, some people anyway.

It’s easier for her to find the way around the Playground again when there’s no one around - when there are no new faces turning the familiar corners unfamiliar. There’s still stuff able to throw her off in a moment - like the inspirational posters that weren’t there when she left. But for the most part, without people, her feet just naturally find a way to wherever she is going to.

She hears noises in the kitchen and freezes. She had imagined everyone else had gone home.

When she enters there’s a smell of oranges and Coulson is there, casually greeting her, as if he was waiting for her to show up.

“No workout this morning?” he asks. “It’s not like you to slack off.”

“Uh?”

He gestures towards her attire, the loose sweater and thin pajama bottoms.

“It’s - it’s the holidays,” she says. “What are you doing here?”

She notices his clothes as well. Sweatpants and an old-looking blue sweater she has never seen him wear before. It makes him look like… entirely someone else. Also there’s the stubble, like he hasn’t shaved in a couple of days.

“Someone has to stay behind and guard the fort, in case there’s trouble.”

It sounds so forced, it actually makes Daisy sad.

“That’s why _I_ ’m here.”

Because yes, that’s the point; she settled it with the Director, Quake would be on the clock, in case there was trouble.

“Well, you know…”

He’s skirting the issue, his right hand tracing an arch on the air, as if that was any kind of explanation. Then he clears his throat.

“Everyone else has their families, their loved ones… I don’t have anywhere to go. In the past I’d go on holiday alone. Didn’t feel like it this year.”

“I didn’t mean to…” she starts. Coulson looks a bit sad, but not too hopeless. Perhaps she disturbed his one chance at solitude. Perhaps he had the same idea as Daisy and was counting on being left alone.. It’s a big base, they don’t have to see each other for the rest of the day.

“Let’s just have breakfast together,” he says, his eyes full of a something quiet and happy about having her here, the way he says _together_. She is not disturbing his alone-time, and Daisy finds that she is not upset at the idea of having some company on New Year’s. “We can monitor local law enforcement. Who knows? Maybe our friends the Watchdogs don’t stop for New Year’s either.”

She nods, agreeing. “I’ll make the coffee.”

They use the slow, expensive machine for once. Which means they have to wait.

“Can I ask about the sweater?”

He makes a face. “What about my sweater?”

“I’ve just never seen it before.”

“I found it at the bottom of a box.”

She remembers he had to move all his stuff. Probably had to put a lot in storage. His humble office in the Zephyr 1 is about a quarter of the space he enjoyed before. There’s something about the sweater though… Daisy doesn’t understand why she should fixate so much but it’s a striking thing. It brings out his eyes, for one. And he looks so very awake, even though it’s way too early for him. Daisy might be imagining things but she swears she sees him wake up earlier and earlier these days. Sometimes she even catches a glimpse of him passing by as she works on the bag in the gym. He doesn’t stop to say hi or distract her, though. She thinks she wouldn’t have minded if he had done it, though. From time to time. Lately he is always there when she walks into the kitchen to have her double latte.

In a way it’s become part of her ritual - she expects him to be around when she finishes her morning routine, he’s become a part of the routine itself.

The blue sweater, though. It’s throwing her off.

“An ex-girlfriend’s gift?” she guesses, curious.

“Something like that.”

“Audrey?”

Something about the way he smiles at the name makes Daisy realize that, although still thinking of her with fondness, Coulson is no longer haunted by the idea of the What If as he had been years before.

“No,” he tells her. “Way earlier.”

It does look older, but not worn. Maybe he hasn’t really had the chance to wear something so casual. For years, even. Thinking that saddens her, he looks so comfortable in it. Even…

Daisy takes a couple of steps towards him, as the dripping noise of the coffee machine fills the air. She reaches out her hand towards the blue sweater -

She touches the fabric. It’s soft. She can image Coulson, young, smitten, open in a way he’d never be again. Daisy mourned that guy in a way, but she could see him still in here. There is still something incredible soft and youthful and romantic in him when she looks in his eyes.

“Daisy?” he asks, trying to get her attention, sounding a little amused.

“Soft…” she mutters, twisting her fingers into the sweater. She doesn’t know why she does that.

She is not sure why Coulson does what he does next, but her body reacts sooner than she does, coming to meet his as his mouth crashes down on hers, and his hands hold each side of her face.

She can feel his stubble scratching against her chin, unthinkably real. Daisy’s hands clutch at his chest, both pulling him against her and grounding herself. She had this plan for New Year’s - she wasn’t going to think about it being Christmas at all, except she was going to walk through the Playground like the ghost she sometimes feels she is, without any friend or stranger passing her way. Now she is kissing Coulson of all people, in the common kitchen of all places, and more than kiss him; Coulson has dropped his hands to her hips and is grabbing her by the waist, backing himself against the kitchen counter, or Daisy is pushing him, she’s not sure, it’s hard to tell. She licks his tongue and Coulson moans into the gesture, trembling against Daisy’s chest and hands.

The noise from the coffee machine finishing shakes them out of it, and they pull away from each other, as startled, rather than embarrassed. There’s no one here to be embarrassed in front of. She wonders if Coulson would be, embarrassed, ashamed, of what they’re doing.

Daisy lets out a soft, slightly-hysterical, chuckle.

“ _Wow_. Where did that come from?”

“Where did yours?” Coulson asks in turn, because yeah, and also she still has her hand tightly twisted into his sweater, the old soft sweater some girlfriend bought for him and suddenly Daisy is irrationally jealous of any ex-girlfriend in his life.

“I don’t know… I don’t need to know.”

Coulson nods, like he understands. He can’t, how could he, he has a good, normal heart. He is not messed up, like she is. But maybe he doesn’t mind - he has loved Daisy through every change, maybe he can love this hopeless version too.

He lifts her by the hips, propping her up on the counter, Daisy has to dip her head to kiss him again. It doesn’t last long this time, because it doesn’t feel enough, right now. She likes the way his fingers dig into her ass and wants more of that.

She twists her fingers into his hair, the little he has, and pulls him down. He kisses her stomach through the fabric of her top, and then he kisses her crotch through the fabric of her pants, pressing his tongue above her clit.

“ _Fuck_ ,” she mutters, almost calling out his name - his first name, that is - and she vaguely thinks she has a lot of security camera footage to delete and fake later. Or maybe she’ll leave it, give the Director a heart attack. Maybe she’ll leave it and wear the incident as a badge of honor. Coulson makes an approving noise when he hears her swear.

“Come on,” she says, a little impatient because she realizes she has forgotten what you do in these situations, how to do this. “Take them off.”

Coulson obliges, not missing a beat. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of her pajamas and her underwear, pulling them off her at the same time. Her bare ass hits the cold counter and she hisses but soon gets distracted by the way Coulson is stroking her ankles, her shin, moving between her legs, delaying the inevitable.

By the time he presses his mouth against her again she is completely wet, waiting for him. He presses his fingertips to her inner thigh, spreading her open for him, sucking her clit into his mouth and then dropping to push his tongue inside.

“Harder,” Daisy says. Coulson moans against her, obviously more and more aroused the bossier she gets. Daisy smiles. That is new. Normally her lovers didn’t like it one bit when she took control in bed. Coulson doesn’t seem to have that problem. Quite the opposite, in fact. “Use your fingers,” she adds, in a firmer voice, now that she feels free to do so. “Your _left_ hand.”

She feels him freeze. But she can tell is not in an entirely uncomfortable way. He looks up, like making sure she is saying what he thinks she’s saying. Daisy nods at him, and Coulson presses one kiss on the inside of her thigh. And then everything happens too fast.

It feels different to anything she’s ever felt, the prosthetic; Coulson pushes two fingers in without much ceremony, she’s so wet and he bluffs his way through her request. It feels different, definitely, as she had hoped, and she likes the idea that because of it Coulson could never feel like any other person, any other lover. They’re not, well, not technically, or technically they are, but the word “lover”, well, it implies, more like it _contains_ and that’s -

“God, I love you,” Daisy whispers, loud enough for Coulson to hear. It slips out, both because he is twisting his fingers, his wonderfully hard prosthetic fingers, inside her, and both because it’s completely true. In reply Coulson kisses a trail between her legs, pushes his tongue into her again, licking and lapping against the thrusting of his hand. It’s enough to make her lose it, to admit to anything. It’s unfair.

When she feels herself building up to an orgasm - one that threatens to be too much right now - Daisy tugs at Coulson’s hair, pulls his face away from her.

“Stop,” she says. “Please.”

“Too much?” he asks.

It’s ridiculous to try and have a serious conversation with Coulson’s head between her legs and his mouth all wet and glistening (it should be gross, it somehow isn’t, not to her anyway), but she nods. He pulls out his fingers carefully and stands up, until he is almost at her level.

He loops his arms around her, hugging her for a moment and making sure she is okay. She clings to his neck, panting against his throat, saying his name quietly. This has happened to her before, but she has never stopped, made the other person stop, just because she was overwhelmed. She’s glad she’s done it now, all of the sudden she gets all romantic and traditional and all of the sudden she really doesn’t want to do this here for the first time, in the common kitchen, where every day strange SHIELD agents comes and go, agents who didn’t know her before, who only know her as Quake. 

“Can you take me to your bed?” she asks, touching her fingertip to Coulson’s mouth.

“My bed is on the plane,” Coulson explains, he runs his hand across his own crotch for a very brief second, obviously trying to release some of the tension.

Daisy makes the calculations, and agrees with his crude gesture on the need for urgency. 

“Okay. Can you take me to my bunk?”

He nods, enthusiastic, looking painfully young - smitten -, Daisy’s thumb sliding up and down his chin.

“I’d like to do that, yes, please, let me.”

He helps her down the counter, picking her clothes from the kitchen floor.

Daisy thinks about how it’s not even seven in the morning yet, and she smiles.

 

+

 

This is the best part of her morning routine, right before coffee.

“Coulson… Phil.”

She says his name like a secret - which it is, and she likes it this way, at least for now (she did go back and delete the security feed). She likes it like she likes the secret of having his taste on her mouth, even after the workout and the training.

Today he stayed in bed, but there is plenty of times when she comes back to his room to find him already showered and dressed.

“You’re not a morning person yet since I’ve come back…”

Daisy puts two and two for the first time since she started noticing Coulson showing up earlier and earlier each time.

“Since when have you known?” he asks, making room in the bed for her. Daisy knows he hopes to convince her to stay, she will try to get him out so they can have breakfast together. Some days she wins, most days Coulson does.

“For a while,” she replies, lying, not wanting to admit how obtuse she’s been, what a fool. She had her suspicions since she came back, of course, but she was too insecure to believe it was anything other than her imagining things, or maybe wishful thinking.

“Was it that obvious?”

“You’re not a morning person,” Daisy tells him, pulling the blanket over both of them and kissing Coulson’s face, his cheek, his half-closed eyelids.

“No,” he agrees, wrapping one arm around Daisy’s sweaty, sticky, disgusting body. “But I’m a Daisy person.”

She would rolls her eyes, but this is the best part of her routine, the days when Coulson stays behind, stays in bed, lying here right before everything starts, their secret, the smell of sex on the sheets, and getting Coulson to say the most shockingly corny things, thing he will only half-remember later, thing that will not embarrassed when repeated to him later. He’s never embarrassed of this, of her.


End file.
